James Grippando - The Abduction

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Abrams is here,” announced her secretary.

“Send him in, please.”

The door opened. Allison welcomed him, offering a seat on the couch. She took the chair facing the window, then laid an expandable file on the coffee table.

“This is what I wanted you to see,” she said.

Harley reached for the file, but Allison withdrew.

“A little background first,” she said. “Confidential background, I would add. What I’m going to tell you, I haven’t even told my husband. I feel since you and I talked last night that we have an understanding. A bond of trust. I hope I’m not wrong.”

Harley looked her in the eye. “You’re not wrong.”

She flashed a thin smile of relief, then spent the next ten minutes telling him about Mitch O’Brien, the awkward reunion at the Fountainbleu Hotel in Miami Beach last August, and the disastrous follow-up a week later in Washington at the gala-including Mitch’s drunken blowup and her fear that someone may have overheard.

“About two weeks after that,” she continued, “I received this in the mail.” She removed a large manila envelope from the file. “You can see it was addressed to my home, marked personal and confidential. Since there was no return address, I brought it to the Justice Building the next morning to have it X-rayed. It checked out, so I opened it. And this is what I found.”

Her hand shook-just as it had the first time, more than a month ago-as she removed an enlarged black-and-white photograph. She laid it on the table.

“That’s me, obviously.”

He leaned forward for a closer look. The photo had been defaced. In bright red strokes, the letter A had been scrawled across Allison’s forehead.

“Obviously the artwork was the handiwork of whoever mailed me the photograph. As is the message on the back.” Allison flipped it over, revealing a handwritten message in the same red scrawl.

It read, Doesn’t stand for attorney general, bitch.

Harley looked up. “What did you do with this when you got it?”

“I just kept it.”

“Why didn’t you give it to the FBI?”

“Like I said, I get plenty of these threats. The last thing I wanted was a scandal that would have the FBI beating on my ex-fiancé’s door. I was pretty convinced it came from Mitch, who I saw as harmless. I just let it go.”

“So why dig it up now?”

“Because now I’m not so sure it’s harmless.”

Harley leaned back. “What’s your thinking?”

“I’m sure you’re aware that my recent political troubles didn’t start with Kristen’s abduction. They started with phony accusations of adultery after the last debate.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I figured that if this scarlet letter photograph related to anything, it might relate to the recent adultery scandal-which all started less than a month after I got this photograph. But then just this morning I overheard my running mate make this bad joke. A slogan, actually, that went something like this: Allison Leahy, the scarlet letter president-don’t think adultery, think abduction.”

Harley glanced again at the photograph. “So you’re thinking that when your secret admirer scribbled on the back of this photo that the A doesn’t stand for attorney general, he didn’t mean it stood for adultery.”

“It stood for abduction,” said Allison. “Maybe it was a warning or a foreshadowing of things to come.”

“Seems a stretch.”

“It does in the abstract. But think of it in the context of your theory that the same person who abducted my Emily also abducted Kristen Howe. Then it’s not such a stretch. It’s a bridge between the two.”

He stroked his chin, apparently warming to the idea. “Let me take everything over to headquarters for analysis. I also think we should track down Mitch O’Brien, find out once and for all if he sent it. Is he still in Miami?”

“As far as I know.”

“I’ll send out a couple of Miami field agents.”

“Let me at least try to reach him by phone before you call out the troops. The history is kind of complicated here.”

“I’d prefer to catch him cold. He is a lawyer, after all. Give a lawyer time to think about it, and they’ll never talk to law enforcement. But catch them cold, and they’re often as stupid as the rest of us. We don’t have time to dance with this guy. Time is of the essence.”

“Yeah,” she scoffed, thinking of the presidential election less than five days away. “You’re telling me.”

“By the way,” said Harley. “I’ll do my best to keep the history between you and O’Brien under wraps, but sometimes these things have a way of leaking. I just mention that, since you said you haven’t even told your husband about your…your recent interaction. He probably wouldn’t appreciate hearing thirdhand that your drunken ex-fiancé was virtually stalking you, professing his undying love for you one day and then cursing you out the next, maybe even sending you threatening mail. He could even think there’s more to it than that.”

“I realize that,” she said with a sinking sense of dread. “I guess maybe it’s time Peter heard the truth. From me.”

General Howe entered the White House through the east side residence gate so as not to be seen by the press corps hovering in front of the West Wing, near the Oval Office. The president’s personal assistant led him to the Map Room, though he knew the way.

The last time Lincoln Howe had visited the inner sanctums of White House power, President Sires was midway through a tumultuous first term, urging the general to withdraw his resignation as deputy secretary of defense. Sires had assured him that the existing secretary was on his way out, and that the top job at the Pentagon would be his within six months. Howe had yet to declare himself a member of any political party. Although presidents sometimes did look outside their own party to fill their cabinet, Howe had chosen not to remain part of a Democratic administration once he’d resolved in his own heart that he was a Republican with presidential aspirations of his own.

Howe sat in the armchair near the fireplace. Over the mantel hung a small map of Europe with red circles and blue markers. The plaque beside it said it was the last situation map of the Allied and Axis armies that Franklin Roosevelt saw before his death, just weeks before the Nazi surrender. The general thought it fitting that nearly all great presidents had served in times of war or were themselves war heroes. Washington. Lincoln. Both Roosevelts. He was of the same great tradition. Sires, he knew, was not.

“I saw your speech last night,” said President Sires. He was wearing a dark suit and striped tie, his power look. He lowered himself into the matching silk armchair, half-facing Howe, half-facing the fireplace. “Very high drama.”

Howe showed no reaction. “It wasn’t intended to be dramatic. You just never know how you’re going to react in these situations. Until it happens to you.”

“Still, it surprised me. I’d always heard that Lincoln Howe is the kind of general who had learned from his experience in Vietnam. Never declare war without a clear set of objectives. Never fight a war you can never win.”

“I think my objectives are clear. It’s time this country protected its children.”

“I’m not talking about your declaration of war against child abductors. I’m talking about your declaration of war against this administration.”

Howe bristled. “I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

“Lincoln, I’ve worked hard over the past eight years to become the education president. I’m proud of my record. As a lame duck president, my record is all I have. Education is my legacy.”

“With all due respect, the use of military forces to combat child abduction has nothing to do with education.”